Subject: ASP-PRE4-The Search Heats Up Date: Tue, 17 Apr 2001 23:20:09 GMT Here is number 4 of the other 5 part segments entitled "The Pre-Adventures Of Smacks Past" Enjoy The Search Heats Up After recovering form the big letdown of our first actual attempt to smoke the killer weed, I decided to step up my search for pot. But where? How? Books, library or otherwise were of no help. This was the early sixties and there just were not the flood of books, zines, online discussions and TV programs that would help the intrepid traveler in finding his way into and through the labyrinthine maze that made up the twilight world of the drug world. And indeed it was a twilight world back then. It's probably hard for anyone under the age of 40 to really understand how different it was back then, except by perusing some old books, and first person accounts of drug use in the first sixty years of the 20th century. Not to mention that even with the high level of communications that exist today, most of the really cool writings are out of print now and are only briefly referenced in newer works of fact, fiction or doctorial thesis. Nope, back in the early sixties, the drug world was still a nether region, it was still the middle earth, still a dark yet seductive secret universe that to the right person beckoned people like me, just like the sirens of antiquity did to the ancient mariners of the newly discovered but uncertain worlds of the past. Drug use, pot or otherwise was a secret world. Even pot was not something that people inhaled with impunity while driving down Main Street. So the way I figured it, I had my work cut out for me. And being such an inquisitive type made it feel right up my alley. But where to look? Well someone I spoke with back then said that you could probably buy pot fairly easily down in Greenwich Village. From as far back as the 1920's "The Village" as it had been known for decades, had the reputation of attracting a different and varied type of city dweller. "The Village" was a haven for artists, beat poets, small time con artists, actors, aspiring musicians etc. I thought it would surely be worth a shot. The same person that told me about it, told me I should go to "Washington Square Park." My only experience of being in the village was having gone down there once with this girl that I had dated for a good "Indian Dinner" and maybe one other time I think I had driven through it with my dad on the way back from a visit to "Fischer Scientific Corporation" which up until the late 60's had a huge chemical distribution and R&D warehouse around there. So I really did not have much to go on from past experience. But I hopped on the "Iron Horse" and looked at the map and asked "what stop do I get off to get to Washington Square Park." An hour later or so, on the next bright Saturday afternoon I found myself emerging from the subway into Greenwich Village. Immediately I was in an alien world. The "vibes" as they would later be called were at once old, refreshing, intriguing and oh so different from the nice little Italian, Irish, Polish and Jewish blue collar neighborhood of my parents. (AS I RELATED EARLIER and REFEREED TO OFTEN IN MY SMACK EXPERIENCES) No, this was something else. I don't think I could adequately describe it although I'm sure many writers have and no doubt did it more justice than I would. Suffice it to say, that it was a neighborhood that just felt like there was a strong promise of a lot of different stuff lying just beneath the surface. After asking some locals I found my way over to Washington Square Park. It must have been about 2 P.M. in the afternoon. But now I was really scared again. Again the thoughts came, "what am I doing? What am I doing here? Who do I approach? What if I ask the wrong person?" Shit! So I found myself eye balling the people in the park. Should I try to talk with a black person? I had read that there was a problem with pot smoking in black ghetto's like Harlem and the South Bronx. But what about checking it out with some of these beatnik looking types? And "wow, look at that cute chick with the ponytail. Wow she looks great and she looks like she might be from around here. I finally got up the courage to start asking a few folks. You would think that some of this would have sobered me up and gotten me back on the subway heading home. "Hi!" "Hi," a reply came back as often as not. "Excuse me" I stammered, "but can you tell me where to get some pot" The responses I got are probably no different than the responses you get today with total strangers. A lot of no's, dirty looks, and several "get the fuck at of here, you junkie." Shit, I was getting scared. What if someone called a cop, or what if I asked a cop? My paranoia was running high. But my curiosity was getting the better of me. I had to get some pot. Finally after about forty five minutes of this a couple of white guys who had been watching me from a park bench came over and asked me what I was looking for? I'm sure they might have been as unsure about me as I was about them. But I told them. "I'm looking for some weed, man. You know where I can get some?" The taller guy looked at his partner and than at the third guy who was still by the bench but was starting to come closer. Then the tall guy said, "how much did you want?" WOW! I was starting to feel excited again like I did the previous Saturday at my friend Dennis's house. "Ahhh, I don't know, how much does it go for" I shot back." "It's five bucks, man" the guy next to him spoke up. "Well what do we have to, I mean….where do we have to go to get it…I mean, do you have any" I tried to act like I was not a total jerk. The tall guy answered back again that it was no problem, he just wanted me to show him my money. I was at least hip enough that I knew I did not want to get ripped off, so with $20 stashed in my sock, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a $5 bill and showed it to him. "The tall guy, told me to wait right here," he said he would be right back. Then both of them met the other guy about half way and continued to shoot backward glances at me a few times. I was tempted to say forget it, cause I had not thought out what I was supposed to do if I actually ran into someone who had some, but the desire to cop was greater than my desire to split, so I waited. In what could not have been more than about two minutes, all of sudden the main two guys that were talking to me turned back again and were heading over in my direction again. "Oh Shit," I thought. "Oh Shit, this is really coming off." In another second the tall guy hands me a small brown envelope and asked for the money. Dumfounded, I handed him the $5 dollars, then I realized that I had not even opened it yet. I yelled, "hey wait a minute" as they were starting away having gotten the $5 bucks, "let me check this out." But they were gone. I figured I better be gone too. Now I was really getting scared again. Fuck, I was holding an actual illegal narcotic in my hand now. Time to get home. I quickly walked back to the subway and took the northbound train back to The Bronx. Now I could not wait to get back home and see what I had. At the corner five and dime store when I got off the train, I bought a cheap pipe. I figured and I had read that with a pipe you could get more into your lungs then with a joint. It was not long before I was back home. My mother was still out but I'm sure she was due back any minute. I quickly ran down into the basement and opened up the little brown envelope. It looked like a small brown pay envelope, not unlike the kind that I had gotten on one of my first part time jobs last summer. Since I still had a basement full of chemistry stuff and since my parents knew I still played around in there a good bit, I didn't think that it would be that big a deal even if my mom did come home and smelled anything. So I went into my lab and filled the pipe as quickly as I could. I lit it up as fast as I could. This was the first time I was actually seeing what pot looked like, since the last time it was already rolled into a joint. It looked like a type of brown tea and had a not unpleasant sweet smell. Hmmmmm, it tasted good too as I started inhaling the smoke from the pipe. And just like my first time at Dennis's the Saturday before, I sucked that smoke down into my lungs as much and for as long as I could. My brain kept saying, "please let me get high, please." But again I was to be disappointed. Again, I did not notice anything different except for the taste in my mouth and the smell of the burning pot coursing through my basement. I ran over to the basement door and opened it to let the odor out before moms came home. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Again, I did not know whether it was garbage I was smoking or whether it had something to do with what I had read that some people need to try it a few times before it hits. Eventually I figured out that what I was smoking was none other than some type of tea Herb tea perhaps, but just tea. This time I was not only depressed but was starting to get over my passion to "get high on pot." After two failed attempts, I figured that maybe it would not work for me anyway. Maybe I should just forget it. If only I had listened to that advice that was in my brain. If only. Copyright Gizmo 2001